


Monster Hospital

by Nerve_Itch



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Chilton misses the mark again, Discomfort intensifies, Dubious psychological practices, Gen, Implied Relationships, Manipulation, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-con themes, Not everyone is going to get out of this one alive, Poor Will, Slow building sense of discomfort, Someone Help Will Graham, There is no way this can end well, in suggestion but not in action, medium character death, psychological abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerve_Itch/pseuds/Nerve_Itch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I think that Will is perceptive enough to see his own vulnerability when he is confronted by it, unmistakeably and unavoidably, and I think that when this happens, then he will accept his nature and he’ll be able to give us answers..."</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> In his attempts to wring professional notoriety from the contents of Will's brain, Dr Chilton employs increasingly unprofessional tactics. <i>This is going to get ugly.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will’s not sure whose voice he hears when he closes his eyes and lets thoughts happen to him; he can’t remember when it stopped being his.

*

 “I’ll be honest, Dr Lecter. I’m a little surprised at the, uh…severity… of his reaction to you.”

Chilton wriggles into a position of approximate comfort in the dark leather of his desk chair, dabs at the shimmer of sweat gathering in his hairline and smiles, somewhat pointlessly.

 

Hannibal’s expression betrays nothing more than a polite interest in whatever justifications are about to pour forth from the other man. He’s wiped the earlier traces of Will’s spittle from his cheek – acrid with the scent of undigested tablets, he noted - and his demeanour now reveals as little evidence of the last half hour as his face does.

 

“You know he’s still holding you responsible for his actions?” continues Chilton.

 

“That is to be expected” says Hannibal , registering Chilton’s quizzical expression and upholding his side of the performance without missing a beat. “Will is in a particularly fragile position right now, and I believe it is important that he regains a grasp on something solid.”

 

Chilton stares, nods, though understanding of Hannibal’s words has yet to penetrate.

 

“It is just unfortunate that he has chosen that idea of a temporary stability to be myself. I would imagine that there is a form of displacement at work here…”

 

 “Which is why I would like to, uh, ground him a little more fully in his setting” says Chilton. He means for it to sound like a statement, not a proposition, but Hannibal draws out the insecurities he exudes and seems to gain strength from them.

 

“And just how would you be doing that?” asks Hannibal. “Will is perfectly aware of the fact that he is incarcerated. And your manhandlers have no doubt amplified that detail by now. How is that to help him?”

 

Chilton reaches for a fresh tissue from his desk and holds it against his forehead, pushing it upwards as it dampens and disintegrates under the stress of perspiration.

 

“What I mean is that my methods will keep Will from acting on those more aggressive urges that we saw today, which my staff will appreciate, hah…”

Hannibal curls his mouth in a bastardisation of a smile.

 

“…But we’ll get what we need from him.”

The clock sounds 8 ticks before Hannibal speaks.

 

“Our Will has a mind that may be misguided at times, but will ultimately realise its truth. I am anticipating that as we chat now, you have made arrangements for some of that valuable mind to be subdued…”

 

Chilton nods tentatively, though he keeps the same glib smile in place.

 

“…I would ask that you consider the gift that you have in this mind, and to consider perhaps that muting it may not be conducive to our shared goal.”

 

It’s the closest Chilton has ever heard to a request from this man and it immediately upsets the dynamic.

 

“And I would ask you, Dr Lecter, to trust that as his caregiver and his doctor _, I_ will be the one to access Mr Graham’s mind and gather the answers held inside it.”

 

“Of course” defers Hannibal.  “I would only request that you would allow me continued visitation rights, despite today’s…upset.  I believe that my presence will help Will to dismiss these notions of external blame, you see…”

 

Like a dance woven about the ankles, Chilton picks up the step for fear of tripping, and agrees.

 

“You’ll allow us a few days first though, of course.”

 

Hannibal nods in curt agreement and Chilton’s smile grows like a warning beacon.

 

“Obliged” says Hannibal, offering a dry hand to Chilton’s sweat dampened palms.

 

“Until then.”

 

*

The medications they feed you in these places, they’re the same as the ones they prescribe in the outside world. The world that still exists, despite all claims of this institution to the contrary. It’s the same Zopiclone or Atropine to fragment those rageful thoughts and then it’s the same Pregabalin to relax the muscles from all that anxiety induced tension and if you’re lucky, it’s the same Dexedrine to counter the depressants and breathe a spark of chemical life back in.  Then, then there’re the same antiemetics like Dolasetron to stop you from vomiting the whole cocktail of moods down your industrially laundered whites and blues. The basics. 

 

Will recites the names of the medications back to himself, silently.

 

_Remember_.

 

He’s not sure if he finds this link between the outside world and this place comforting  _– it’s not the unspoken menace you remember it being. It’s just a hospital. These are just drugs –_ or more disempowering –  _normal people can take these without assistance but you, you need to be interned here just to chow down on these like a normal person because you’re not, are you? Other people need to feed you, need to wash you, need to give you your medications because look who’s not together enough to do it for themself, hmm?_

 

He’s not sure whose voice he’s hearing when he closes his eyes and lets thoughts happen to him; he can’t remember when it stopped being his.

 

_Atropine. Pregab- pre-_

 

The slow-looping recital of thoughts is interrupted by an instruction to move to the back of his cell, and he thinks  _but I’ve already had my mind nullifiers for the day_. He shuffles backwards, bare heels scuffing the cold solid floor and feeling the catch of fabric as he moves, feels pins and needles through him and wonders how he’s supposed to know what a day is any more.

_You’re trying to fight something, remember?_  His brain tells him.

_But you’re not going to fight, are you?_

 

There’s a hand on his jaw – a gloved hand – heavy with metal or something that’s scratching his chin. He doesn’t remember seeing the barred door open, or anyone enter the closed cell, and the discomfort that lurches at this is familiar. The smell is like balloons and antiseptic and the glove is pulling his jaw down. The gesture doesn’t feel deliberately rough but the weight is too much on his face. A second hand is pulling at the top of his head, and he thinks about a Pac Man being yanked into the shape people expect a Pac Man to be and he thinks, _Pac Man? Did I even play Pac Man or has it just seeped into my head with all those other memories from other places that are clogging it all up_? His eyes get hot and his jaw aches with being pulled wide and he can only see the ceiling, not the person with the gloves and then he thinks _no, wait_ , it should be two people. This has happened before, and  _damnit_  why can’t he remember? He’s still looking at the gray-white ceiling and the skin under his eyes feels too warm and his jaw hurts like it’s about to be sprung open. His mouth is dry  _and this must happen every day_ but the memory of when or why doesn’t connect.

 

_Your memory isn’t to be trusted_  he hears. And he’s not sure whose thought is telling him this.

 

“These are the ones to help you sleep, Mr Graham” says a neutral male voice through the fuzz and he thinks  _but I’m already asleep_. He feels the tablets dropping into his mouth and one – the chalkiest one, the one that starts shedding bitter flavours as soon as it touches anything – _what is this one called_ – it drops under his tongue. It itches and it tastes like slow death and he’s starting to cough.

There’s half a second, maybe – between the spasm of his chest and the gloved hands forcing his jaw shut. He’s coughing, still, only he can feel his neck tightening, feels the cough shut inside his mouth and his airways getting confused. Instinct makes him flex his shoulder muscles, makes him try and reach his arms up to move those hands away, except the movement doesn’t happen. The cramp of a day’s inactivity shoots through his elbows and he can feel the constriction of the canvas material wrapping itself round him – tight, too tight – _this is why you couldn’t move_  – and he can’t breathe _can’t breathe_  and there’s a hand over his mouth – _idiot –_ and there’s metal in front of his nostrils and this cough is thundering between his chest and his teeth.

 

“Swallow. Just swallow.”

 

The voice is too loud and he feels too hot and his throat’s opening, closing, opening, closing and his cheeks are hot, damp, and the voices won’t stop shouting if he could just open his mouth and let the cough out –

 

*

 

It’s not, he thinks, that he meant to bite. Not that his intention will be considered, here. It’s just that his jaws, when they finally sprung open and gave his choking some air, they caught one of the gloved fingers. It’s that there were all these  _things_  in front of his face and  _his space_ and something was trying to reach inside his mouth. He’d have just pushed them away if he could only move his arms, but instead he can feel metal against his teeth and someone is screaming at him. And now someone is screaming at someone else…

 

“Get out. Get help, get the –”

 

“My _hand_ – he bit through the – I don’t –”

 

Will knows he’s supposed to feel guilt for this but he knows somehow that if he feels that, he’ll get _everything else_ with it too. He’s spat out the half dissolved tablet. The finger isn’t nudging his tongue anymore and he can _breathe_. That’s enough.

 

“I didn’t –” he tries to say, but his tongue seems to roll against his teeth and words aren’t happening. He wants to struggle again – his instincts are telling him that something bad will happen, and then they’re saying  _but you knew this, didn’t you?_  His thoughts are pressing against the inside of his skull with a new headache and they’re telling him  _you did this because you’re terrified that if you start to heal, you’ll feel accountable for what you’ve done_.

 

“Second chance, Mr Graham” says a voice that’s different from the first – a voice that makes him think of nausea and different ways of hurting – and there’s still this background fog of shouting and the sounds of soft soled shoes on lino floors. Will can’t open his eyes, doesn’t want to see what’s coming now because damnit, _Chilton_ and  _no_.

 

“Swallow these and we’ll be able to move past tonight” says a not-Chilton voice that’s so bored of the routine threats it makes, it almost doesn’t sound like words.

 

Will wants to  _say but I was trying to_  but he knows that even if he could make the words come out they wouldn’t be heard. He tries to nod his head and feels the constricted muscles in his back twinging with a new movement, feels the grasp around his head and wonders if his headache will go when the hands go and wonders why he can’t focus on the faces around him and _remember how this is supposed to work_.

 

“Open” commands that same bored voice and this time the movement is not as gentle. Will wonders if his bite was hard enough to break that other hand, wonders who it belonged to and wonders why they’re asking him to open his mouth when the staff here have control of his head, his jaw anyway.  He lets his face go slack all the same and feels the taste of acid and metal and maybe sulphur as the air of the room hits his tongue. He’s looking at the ceiling again but his vision’s just made of spots now – white spots, yellow spots, gray spots and all of him _hurts_.

 

This time, it’s not gloves that he can feel on the side of his mouth. It’s cold and metallic and it’s like  _tongs_. They’re pulling at his face and this time, this time the pills fall neatly to the back of his throat. Water sprays against the back of his tonsils and he swallows, mouth still open. He feels the metal moving clumsily inside his mouth, feels his tongue clasped and manoeuvred just enough to check that he’s not hiding anything underneath and  _you assholes_  he’s thinking.  _You saw me swallow this time_ , except now he’s retching.

 

“Okay, release” says the voice that is unmistakably Chilton and now, Will’s eyes are watering.

“Cover” says Chilton and it’s too conversational. Will’s trying to see what Chilton is talking about covering but there’s one of these pills that acts faster than the other and now, he cannot bring himself to care.

 

_Because it’s easier to turn off, isn’t it?_ The feeling of heavier limbs, of lesser control, it’s only scary for a moment  _and I remember this feeling_  thinks Will and that in itself is a comfort.

 

Something presses against the outside of his closed mouth and  _no,_ and  _stop it,_ and as the force and the noise only reinforces how little he can do but endure it, _stop saying I did anything to earn this_. The something – a cold, rubbery, stretching something, is pulled taut across his face, from the dent beneath his nostrils to the bottom of his chin, to round his head, pulling his hair as it’s buckled into place.

 

Will’s neck tenses and he thinks about choking.

 

“Basic measurements now…” says Chilton lightly, as Will swallows his breath and swallows and swallows until he’s no longer aware of the motion “…and we’ll take the mold when he’s fully out, yes?”

 

Will sinks into the inevitable sedation and thinks about choking Chilton.

 

*


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Will tries to remember these other sessions Chilton’s referring to; that he can’t sends fresh fear through him. Without the sheen of sedatives, his lack of psychological coherence is somehow amplified and he finds himself pressuring his restraints as Chilton talks at him in platitudes._

 

It’s at least a day before they wash off the last flecks of plaster from his face and hair. Will only knows this because the first time he wakes up, he’s not restrained. He talks himself through the things he knows (My name is…my name is Will Graham.  I’m in the Baltimore Institute for the Criminally Insane, and they don’t trust me to know the time…) and then he tries to remember the things he doesn’t (I should not be here. I shouldn’t be here…?)

 

The first thing he touches is his hair. His fingers feel heavy, rubbery, not his own yet, but he can move them and feel the bumps of his skull and the damp coarseness of his hair and  _this is me. I am Will Graham. This is my head,_ and he can almost form a picture of what he’s supposed to look like, except when he tries to focus the eyes keep changing. They’re blue and then they’re ovals and brown and then they’re burning and then they’re black, pierced from the inside by antler spikes… and he has to tug at his own hair to ground himself again.

 

That’s when the first tiny shard of white unsticks from his hair and wedges under his too-short fingernail and he’s not grounded any more. He’s got things that are not his on him, _in him,_ and not this _, not this again_. He pulls and scratches at his hair, his face, and for all the bits that come away, he’s still finding more and –

 

“Mr Graham, remain –”

 

The voice gives way to static and hands cover him like a blanket and the familiar needle drives into tensed muscle and –

 

*

 

“I need you to concentrate for me. Please?”

 

Will opens his eyes to a blurred Chilton and feels a Pavlovian echo of nausea judder through him.

 

“Come on. This’ll wake you up. Open wide” he smiles, pinching a small triangular orange tablet between his thumb and forefinger.

 

 _Dexedrine_.

 

Will moves to grab it from him and then realises _oh_. His arms are caught at his sides, thick straps holding them in place at the wrists and he wonders why he bothers ever trying to move any more. A discreet tensing tells him there’s no other physical leverage open to him yet.

 

“Open, Will” says Chilton in that same chatty tone that belongs in sales rooms, not hospitals.

 

 “There…there we go…there…good…”

 

Will supposes it’s no accident that he’s being spoken to the same way people speak to their dogs or infants, and swallows.

 

“There. That wasn’t so hard, now. Troy’s hand will repair just fine, in case you were, uh, wondering.”

 

Will hadn’t been wondering. Will didn’t know Troy from any other orderly and the condition of his hand wasn’t his problem. Except _take some responsibility, you goddamn waste_. Except, _whose voice are you listening to_?

 

“Now. Look around you.”

Will blinks, feels the charges of chemical energy from the pill energising his veins, feels the room pull into an approximate focus. There’s a table between his secured seat and Chilton’s free one. This table - it’s the kind of large foldable table they bring out at school fetes and there’s stuff in clear plastic bags arranged over its white lino top.

 

Will blinks an acknowledgment that yes, he’s seen it.

 

“You remember what this is, yes?” asks Chilton.

 

Will studies the metal legs of the table, stares at a dent in one side and thinks about how much force would be needed to kick the table free and pinion Chilton’s neck with it. And wonders, with something a little close to hope, if that’s how the dent appeared in the first place.

 

“Come on. Look at me.”

“I am looking” says Will to the top of the table.

 

“You’ve been able to provide me with a lot of…insight… during these sessions and I’m afraid that sooner or later, I’m going to have to start sharing you.”

 

Will chances a glance at Chilton’s face, and is unsurprised to see sincerity in his smile.

 

“With my colleagues, I mean. Your… thing. I mean, we’re making some real progress…”

 

Will tries to remember these other sessions Chilton’s referring to; that he can’t sends fresh fear through him. Without the sheen of sedatives, his lack of psychological coherence is somehow amplified and he finds himself pressuring his restraints as Chilton talks at him in platitudes.

 

“…But of course I need you focused for this. Are we awake yet?”

 

“I’m awake” Will tells the table.

 

“You’ve spent so much time identifying with the – with the _powerful_ that it’s made you feel invincible, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

“I’m not _invincible_ ” states Will as though spitting out pips from rotting fruit. _What is he saying_?

 

“Then we are making some progress! Look at the table in front –”

 

“Why am I looking at the damn table.”

 

“Because you’re making dangerous accusations about a man who doesn’t share in your sickness, and until we can get you to admit why you are wrong in doing so, I am _fighting_ _off_ other doctors who want to get their hands into that head of yours so…” he lets himself take a breath to refuel, “you’re better off letting me because trust me, I’m the nice guy here.”

 

Will is pretty certain that he’s never seen Chilton rattled and then, he realises he can’t be certain about this. About anything.

 

“The table.”

 

Chilton returns to his own version of pleasantry, walks around the table to where Will is trying not to shake – _why are you so scared_ –removes a pair of glasses from a pocket in his white jacket and arranges them on Will’s face.

 

“These” he says, returning to the table of plastic wrapped paraphernalia, “are some of the personal effects of Regis Mace.”

 

Will stares and doesn’t pretend to understand the meaning attached to this pointless information.

 

“Regis occupies a cell not far from the white one you woke in two days ago” says Chilton and again, he sounds like he’s discussing car sales, not people. “You’ve probably heard him screaming.”

 

Will hears lots of screaming. It hardly seems worth pointing out where it comes from.  

 

Chilton puts on one latex glove and with it, removes a child-sized pair of grey trousers from one of the plastic wraps on the table. His nose scrunches as the smell hits the air – mildew, piss and something else long since rotted.

 

Will grinds his teeth and wishes he could cover his nose.

 

“What is this?” he asks, tiring already of Chilton’s performance, hating the games, hating being confined, _hating_.

 

Chilton doesn’t answer, just unwraps the other bags, pulling out short cut lengths of brittle rope, scraps of hand written notes, a spanner flecked with rust – probably –, a tube of congealed moisturising cream with a price sticker from a service station, and a faded skin rag that looks like it’s been left out in the woods since before the decade turned.

 

“That thing you do” says Chilton and Will wants to tell him that this is not how it works and could he make the smell stop, but he’s got a fear curdling his arteries in a way he’s not used to and it seems easier to just agree with what’s being asked.

 

“These things are not about what Regis did to get here” says Chilton with uncharacteristic opacity.

 

Will scowls. It’s not a conscious decision; it’s just how the stench and the discomfort is pushing his face.

 

“Oh, you’d have his crimes solved in a heartbeat. That’s not interesting to me” rambles Chilton, “or helpful to you.”  Will’s trying not to look at everything in front of him, trying not to feel the restriction of the bindings and trying to pretend he’s got an escape planned out. He tries not to gag, then tries to hide that his eyes are stinging, wet and stinging. _For god’s sake don’t let him see you cry. Idiot. Idiot idiot_.

“This is about _why_ Regis felt the need to commit those crimes –”

 

Will wants to shout that he knows what Chilton is trying to do, that he’s suggesting some unhappy event in this man’s life caused some other big awful thing to happen, and wants to scream out that it is bullshit psychiatry _because no one is the way they are because of something someone else did to them_ but his words stick in his throat. _How are you going to make them believe you now?_

 

“Now, we’ll do what we did last time. I’m going to give you your space, and your time.”

 

The more Will’s reactions manifest themselves physically - the damp eyes, the shaking which he’s desperately trying to attribute to cold or medication –  the more the effects of his incapacitation upset him. And then, he realises, this is exactly why Chilton orchestrated it this way. Chilton is doing this to him – _don’t fall in_.

 

“Can you still read the notes from there?” he asks, and before Will has a chance to answer, he’s dragging the table to no further from a foot from the edge of Will’s knees and has the scraps of paper propped up in the space that he’d been staring out moments before. “Those are the last messages he got from his mother” smiles Chilton, and the word ‘shame’ flutters into view as Chilton moves towards the door, making no promise of when he will return.

 

Will closes his eyes, knows that he shouldn’t look, and _yet_.

 

*


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Will meets with the notion that his chosen method of grounding himself, it wasn't even_ his _idea._ Nothing is yours and you have no control.

 

Will is led down a corridor of closed doors towards what they call the ‘viewing room’.  _Because ‘visitor room’ sounds too civilised for the degenerates in here_.  He’s in his blues, not his whites – this is supposed to portray an image of someone less scattered than he is, he imagines. Or less tangled up in the machinations of the institution. He can’t be sure either way.

 

“Get out” is screamed from inside a locked room and it sounds, for a moment, like one of Will’s thoughts, and then it sounds like an instruction.

 

The metal rattles between wrists and ankles and as he walks, he feels the tension reverberating through his bones.  _You’re imagining things. You’re delusional and making this all seem worse than it is._ Idiot. _You get that this is your fault, don’t you?_

 

He lets them position him inside the cage, lets them link his wrists to the floor and lets them shut the door and for a short moment, it feels like safety.  _They can’t touch you in here_.

 

Then he remembers that this is where visitors meet him and a thought rushes into his head that looks like Alana’s face – for a beat, it’s a good thought. It’s hope and it’s reassurance and in the next beat it’s betrayal. Well-meant betrayal, and this sharpens the sting.  _As if you could expect another person to want to help you_.

 

Will knows this other voice doesn’t belong here – but how fiercely he knows this is still wavering.

His escorts – he doesn’t need to know who they are, doesn’t want to take in any more of any other person – leave him with a quick check of the padlocks, walking out in triangle formation. The silence feels too much – like there’s a wall of secrets and shame that’s been waiting for a quiet enough time to fall and bury him. He shakes limply at the chains, stares at the pattern of bars in front of him, the chips of the paint on them, the filth and the stone and the metal and  _you’re finally where you belong. You’re reaping everything you’ve ever earned with every dirty thought you’ve ever had and nothing that happens here will match what you deserve and…_

 

“Hello, Will.”

 

The voice sounds unfamiliar for a moment – long enough for Will to feel disorientated, and long enough to prove that if the voice belongs to a stranger, then he is not Will and he is stuck with someone else’s thoughts in his head and he begins to miss the simplicity of Garrett Jacob Hobbs.

 

“Will. Where are you right now?”

 

Will raises his chin from his chest, lets himself see the person in front of him with his maroon suit, mustard and olive tie, weathered, shining skin and relentless sparkle in those creeping eyes and  _oh_.

 

The breath travels as far as Hannibal‘s ears and dies out.

 

“Tell me where you are, Will.”

 

Will stares at the man and convinces himself that this is not an apparition, leaving a silence for the voice to continue speaking.

 

“Whilst I am of the belief that you are not wholly present in your own misery, I feel it would be better for you to realise this for yourself. Tell me, Will, where are you right now?”

 

Will’s mind feels like a factory, lurching into action and putting the right thoughts where they belong, clunking machinery putting him back into the old motions.

 

“I’m right where you put me, Dr. Lecter.” It feels like he’s said this before.

 

“Come, Will. You must know that we are not to progress if you remain fixed on this notion of blame. Your being here is not a punishment –”

“It feels a lot like a punishment from where I am” he spits in return and his voice sounds sadder than he intended.

 

“Tell me your name” says Hannibal, unphased.

 

“My _name_. My name is…”

 

There’s a pause while the remnants of debris from the morning’s session get in the way of his thoughts and the pause communicates more than Will intended.

 

“…Will Graham.”

 

This time, when Hannibal smiles his cautious smile, it doesn’t reach as far as his eyes.

 

“Will. I want you to tell me what treatments you have been getting.”

 

“So you’re worried now?” says Will, finding less effort in talking to the bars around him than to the man in front of him. His instincts are oscillating between vitriolic fury and a simple animalistic fear, and neither reaction makes him feel any less unsafe. He looks to the side, lets Hannibal ask him again and remains mute.

 

“Will, please cease this petulance” commands Hannibal, calm. “It does not become you, nor does it allow me to assist you.” He’s stepping closer to the cage so that he is no further than a foot from the bars, looking down at Will. What little light had reached Will now appears to have been blacked out by his looming figure. Will feels his voice growing lighter and his resolve dissipating.

 

“I don’t know” he says, knowing without looking that Hannibal is staring holes into him.

 

“Now, last time, we went through the medications” states Hannibal as though approaching an equation. “Tell me, what medications are you being given? Are they still the same?”

 

_Dexedrine. Atropine. Pre-_

 

“You remember that you were supposed to recite the names of them, yes? As we agreed. So tell me, are you on any new medications?”

 

Will meets with the notion that his chosen method of grounding himself, the small thing of reciting the names of his daily drugs, it wasn’t even _his_. _Nothing is yours and_ _you have no control_.

 

He closes his eyes and wills himself away from the cage and the questions and the cold stink of the room, and tries to think about safety. He visualises himself in this moment instead as if stood on a ledge. Behind his eyelids there’s the drop beneath him, a long ridged descent which would, he considers, probably kill him; if not swiftly then at least completely. And above him, above him is steep climbing, on sharp ice, faulty foot holds, through a landscape of fire and war and things his brain never used to supply him with and for a moment he’s giddy with vertigo. It would be _so easy_ to just drop. Let Hannibal coax him to whatever eventual end he’d chosen…

 

“Are they injecting you with anything, Will?”

 

Will looks behind his eyes for the source of the voice. Peers into the figurative abyss and thinks _yes_ , _let go_. _Let something other than that shrivelled hell of a brain take control for a change_.  And yet, this voice, he knows, is not the right one. He isn’t even sure if it’s Hannibal’s voice, Chilton’s, Crawford’s, even, or just the collective tug of everything. _Remember who you are_.

_Remember_.

 

Indignation sears his head from the inside and he _knows_ he can’t let himself fall. Knows he needs to take the harder route, because whoever – whatever – wants him to fall _cannot win_. Knowing this, Will feels a version of strength that he has not been accustomed to since coming here. He lets his visualisation disperse, lets himself stare up at the man in front of him, and knows that if he is going to make it out alive, he is going to need to fight _everyone_.

 

“No, Dr Lecter.” He just needs to work out _how_.

 

“I assume Dr Chilton is attempting to weaken you, and I am merely trying to find out what methods he is using. He is fond of sedatives and I would encourage you to resist as many of them as you are able. Could you perhaps describe for me your last s–“

 

“He’s got me doing my magic trick for him” says Will and for all his emotional battle-stance, his words are still loaded with hurt. Hannibal appears to understand.

 

“Do all you can to not let him in. Can you tell me who he has you attempting – ”

  
“Have they not cottoned on to you yet?”  demands Will. “Tell me that – that Jack isn’t on to you.” Will wonders if it his resolve or simply the protective layer of the cage that is affording him more confidence. He also considers that he is not as adept at being manipulative or cautious as he would like, despite his apparently masterful tutors.  Hannibal sighs with measured frustration.

 

“I was hoping that we were not going to begin our every encounter at this rung of the conversational ladder, Will. I am trying to help you, which appears to be more than Jack is doing. It is much more than your field colleagues are doing.”

 

Will feels the absence of the name that was left out just as Hannibal elects to speak it.

 

“And it is more than can be said for Dr Bloom, who sends her apologies but she simply cannot bear to see you as you are.”

 

The air around Will appears to thin.

 

“I suspect, of course” continues Hannibal, measuring out his words like the ingredients of a bomb, “that her motivations for staying away are more complex. She finds it hard, I believe, to apportion her loyalties…”

 

There’s moisture collecting in Will’s eyes that he has no way of blinking away with discretion. _Let yourself slip so easily._

 

“…between the one who was her good friend, and the one who now holds in her more romantic esteem.”

 

*

 

“It appears that you are risking the last vestiges of Will’s confidence. Are you telling me that you intend to have him relive these perceived atrocities from the point of view of the dead?”

 

Despite the musicality to Hannibal’s voice, there is threat layered in every syllable. “I do not believe that this will achieve your aim, nor will it be the key to unlocking the secrets that you believe are trapped inside of our Will.”

 

Chilton takes a moment to gather himself in the face of the accusations. There is more paper on his desk, more books and more boxes, all positioned like a low wall between himself and his visiting colleague.

 

“You misunderstand me,” he offers, licking his bottom lip and hiding the sweat of his hands behind his desk clutter. “Firstly, not the dead. But, the victims are often later the perpetrators; it’s more a way of encouraging him to understand his own motivations as I believe there is something he’s not acknowledging in himself…”

 

“I would be concerned, you understand, if I thought he was being encouraged to forfeit his emotional strength simply because it made managing his personal safety more simple.” The criticism – that of the institute’s inability to contain the manifestation of Will’s betrayal into violent action – sits like a weapon between them before giving way to the same forced civility.

 

“Obviously” continues Hannibal, “I trust that you would be able to accommodate him if he were to temporarily give in to this persona. It is, after all, the role of his doctor to help him actualise who he is. Do you not agree?”

 

The sound of the wall clock measures out Chilton’s hesitation.

 

“It appears, Doctor Lecter,” – two more clunks of the second hand – “that you are not considering the potential he has for recognising what it is that has _made_ him this way, and the opportunity this presents us with…”

 

“Then forgive me, if there is a theory you have that is perched atop the tongue of yours, I would be very curious to hear it.”

 

There’s another pause that Chilton would fill with a sigh if he weren’t still clasping the upper hand that he still believes he has.

 

“You must understand,” he says, in the sort of broad, smug tone that should never be used with Dr Lecter, “that his ability to empathise, his supposed  _insight_  – it’s less of a gift than it is a – a retreat.”

 

Hannibal regards him with an unmoving smile.

 

“You must be aware, Dr Lecter, as his  _psychiatrist_ … ” he affords himself a minute self-congratulatory smile and fails to recognise how close he is getting to draping a noose round his own neck and handing Hannibal the other end to tug at.

 

“…That his habit of taking up refuge in other people’s head spaces, this thing he does so easily, it’s a coping mechanism that he’s developed. You said as much yourself! Now, you understand –”

 

“That you think he experienced something in his past that he needed to… cope with.” Hannibal barely contains the disdain in his voice, but keeps the small smile as close to fixed as the words let him.

 

“Exactly!” proclaims Chilton with unabashed obliviousness to Hannibal’s distaste.

 

“He’s close to telling me what it is, you know” he continues. “Not, uh, directly yet of course ah hah. But, time is hardly the issue here.”

 

Hannibal favours the nervous testament of gathering sweat on Chilton’s face over the content of his words. “So you imagine that by exposing Will to other people who have experienced things that they might retreat from, that he will unfurl some part of himself that has never been shown, not even to someone he trusts?”

 

“Hah. Of course not like that” says Chilton and the unease he should have felt earlier in the exchange is only now registering explicitly. “But there are signs that people exhibit when they begin to accept the true horrors of their pasts, you see –”

 

“I know these signs. Yes.”

 

“–And you’re aware that Will exhibits a number of these already, of course?”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“I think…I think that Will is perceptive enough to see his own vulnerability when he is confronted by it, unmistakeably and unavoidably, and I think that when this happens, then he will accept his nature and then he’ll be able to give us answers about…well. I’m revealing too

much of my methods here! Hah.”

 

“Or not enough, Mr Chilton” says Hannibal and the omission of the word ‘Doctor’ gapes.

 

“Hah. Yes well, it’s all slow progress as we say.”

 

Chilton’s expression is more hesitant than at the beginning of the conversation and his fingers begin flicking through the paper on his desk. Hannibal nods imperceptibly towards the clicking wall clock and waits for Chilton to remedy the quiet.

 

“Well uh, I’m sure there’ll be an opportunity to discuss this with more detail when we get some results” says Chilton and the omission of any address to Hannibal is a testament to his lack of confidence. “But I’m afraid I really must get on with the day. I do have other patients too, after all!”

 

“But none so interesting to you, I am sure” smiles Dr Lecter.  “Until next time” he says and reaches across the desk to shake his hand, ensuring that in order to reciprocate, Chilton will have to raise out of his seat just far enough to cause discomfort to his stitched insides, though not too far as to be impolite.

 

Chilton complies, refuses to wince and acknowledges to himself that he has lost this round against Hannibal, but he’s not yet lost to Will.

 

*


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You need to remember these sessions. Remember what he’s trying to do to you, and fight it._

 

 

“Bathroom” announces the speaker in the room and Will’s balancing his need to get the stagnating smell of his cell off him with his need to appear as calm, subdued and not in need of  _any more damn sedatives_  as he can.

 

“Be seated on the bed, arms to your sides, Mr Graham. Remain still as we enter the room, or we will use force, Mr Graham.”

 

It’s a dull, female voice, the same weariness of everyone else he’s heard from everyone in this place who isn’t Chilton.  _Fight this_.

 

Will sits back down, letting his movements hang just a little more loosely than he’s feeling, a little less balanced than he is. His eyes sit only half open and he lets his jaw hang slack. He watches the door open through his sticky eyelashes and remains as limp as he viably can without falling back against the cold stone wall.

 

Three people walk into the room, one female, from her gait – no, _two_ female, one male– and  _this is how many people have to escort you to take a wash_ flies through his mind.  He lets them wrap a canvas sleeve across his forearms, linking them together in front of him in a secured ‘V’. Lets them lift him upright, lets them pinion his upper arms to his chest and walk him towards the bathrooms. Doesn’t protest when his gown rides up as he’s being walked into the white enclosure, as though he’s not adding this new indignity to the fuel store for his anger.  Doesn’t complain when they position and secure him in the seated shower, scrub him too hard in places and don’t let him wash himself in others. Doesn’t stare at the last flecks of plaster as they gather at his curled toes. Remains subdued when he’s dried and dressed and doesn’t protest when they return him to his cell, remove the sleeve, tell him to hold his arms up and tell him that this jacket, it’s only for a few hours this time, so long as “nothing goes wrong”. It’s just, they tell him, so that Chilton can have a consultation with him that “doesn’t have to address any sort of physical obstacles.”

 

He doesn’t wince at the mention of Chilton and when the groin strap pulls at his balls when they secure it, the only sound he makes is an “ow” that is barely distinguishable from a cough.

 

 _This is how you are going to beat them_.

 

 _Except, you’re hardly winning here, are you? Look at yourself_. Will tugs for a second at the straps, the tautness of material wrapped around him and tries to gauge whether it’s better to try for a small, regular amount of movement, or to remain still and let the inevitable ache give way to a complete numbness in an hour or so.  _Be passive. Be passive and let this happen_.

 

“Remain on the bed” comes a new voice. That voice. The living voice, like a spring uncoiling through the speaker. Will grits his teeth then slacks his jaw again and knows that keeping calm will be hard.

 

 _You need to remember these sessions_. _Remember what he’s trying to do to you, and fight it_.

 

“Don’t move or we’ll have to – you know this.” Chilton sounds like he’s trying to have a conversation about weather, about coffee, about something innocuous.

 

Chilton walks in, leans against the cold wall. He’s followed by a nurse who Will doesn’t recognise; a tall man with shining skin that contrasts against the pallor of the doctor. The tall man adopts the same ‘watching not watching’ glazed expression, staring at a fixed point about two feet above Will’s head. He’s holding a white sports bag and he’s got his hand inside the pocket of his white jacket. Will’s guess is that he’s either gripping a tazer or a syringe.

 

 

“How is that brain of yours today?” asks Chilton, wide smile breaching the face that Will wants – needs – to punch into the wall.

 

“It’s fine” Will tells Chilton’s chest. There’s at least 4 feet between them and  _you have to stop thinking about how you’d snap his neck_.

 

“Uh huh. Now. I need you to tell me what you remember about last Thursday.” He smiles; naming days of the week as though it might have any bearing on Will’s perception of time is his new habit.

 

Recognising that _he’s done this before_ comes as a new comfort.

 

Will smiles back, but it breaks into more of a snarl.

 

“I don’t remember, doctor.”

 

“Of course, time is not really your uh, area.” Chilton leans back. “Tell me what you remember about yesterday’s visit, then” he offers and Will knows some of this. Remembers an echo of Hannibal, remembers the feeling of terror but remembers that it wasn’t all for himself this time. Remembers a feeling like livid hatred and the feel of a scream that should have stayed bottle and he remembers feeling scared. Scared in a way that Will has never felt before, not through his own mind.

 

“I remember” he slurs, not exaggerated but still deliberate, “I had a visitor.” He remembers the desperate need to jump his restraints and the feeling of his wrist bones getting damp with the effort. He remembers being shunted forward, of a stinger loaded with sedative catching him in the neck.

 

“What is it about your former psychiatrist that bothers you so much, I wonder?” says Chilton, more to the room and to his sense of ego than to Wlil.

 

“But you’re my psych- psychiatr- psy –”

 

Chilton seems to register the attempted foil; crosses the room to where Will is sat, pushes his forehead back and shines a torch at Will’s pupils.

 

“Our session is not until later on” states Chilton, still presenting the idea of time passing as a novel concept when speaking to Will – _it’s another joke at your expense_ – releases his head and skirts back to the opposite wall. “But I believe you’ll be more receptive if you’re awake.”

 

Will tries to identify the purpose to this visit, beyond it being the simple reinforcement of the detail that no one place in this prison can provide any refuge from Chilton.

 

“There’s just the small matter of…”

 

Will knows what’s coming this time. The drizzle of words about how he’s a danger, about how he’s injured people here, about what risks they’re prepared to take, just to try and unravel his head and _it’s true, though_.

 

“…This, this is how we’re going to deal with your uh…” Chilton makes a gesture like gnashing teeth.

 

“Sem, please?”

 

It takes Will a moment to realise who Sem is, but he’s only given a short second to resent the unwanted personal details like names before the man called Sem has removed an object from the sports bag and is advancing towards him with it.

 

“Okay! And stay still for me, Will, thank you…” _Be passive and let this happen_.  The object is clear, rigid and fits too close to his face. He wants – needs –to struggle against this happening but _pretend_. Sem presses the plastic half-mask into place, fixes straps under his chin and above his ears, holds Will’s shaking shoulders with his wide hands for long enough to check that breath can fit in and out of the circle of vents in the front.

 

“This should stop any more incidents with our staff and their extremities” states Chilton with a new coldness. Will waits for the follow up, for the explanation of how long he will be expected to wear this, when he will get his voice back or his full breath, but neither Chilton nor Sem offers anything more. They exit the cell, leaving Will with fresh fury gathering behind the mask.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first thing I've written or shared in a really long time - your feedback means a lot, so thank you for reading!


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because you remember what it was to be confined all that time. You know the feeling of rope keeping you tethered here, away from where you can do more harm. You know what it is to feel trapped…_
> 
> _And Will understands that Chilton’s design is so_ complete, _the way he’s trapping him here in so many different ways_ and there’s no escaping for you, is there?

 

“Concentrate for me.”

 

Will’s in the room with the table and Chilton and the stench of dead things and plastic wrap. The mask fixed to his face is a poor barrier against the smell, and he’s fighting every instinct to struggle against the straps fixing him into place, despite the itching of the scabs on his wrists. In terms of an escape, he’s pretty sure this room won’t be the place to start although, he reasons, it’s about the only time he’s ever left alone.

 

“These are a handful of Regis’s effects” states Chilton and Will is unsure as to whether he should pretend to be hearing this information as new, or whether he should admit that he’s remembering some things.

 

“I want you to focus, but also, I think we’re going to have to up our game with this a little.”

 

Will wonders how sitting still in a locked room that stinks of mould and piss is helping either of them, and can’t guess at the motivation or how there is any game to be upped.

 

“Tell me, what do you know about Regis?” asks Chilton.

 

Will looks at the notes on the table, the swirls of handwriting excommunicating a young Regis from the family unit, confining him to his shame. Knows the stench of his incontinence and the story of repeated imprisonment –  _away from the home, some place that can’t be sullied by you–_ that frames it. Knows that in the pages of pornography, Regis found a version of his mother that he could relate to.

 

“That his childhood was not a happy one” understates Will, but the words come out like a low drizzle, caught in the mask and the way his it cuts into his cheeks when he tries to move his mouth.

He knows the physicality of the mother, buoyed by new interest in her, knows the hatred of the father, fuelled by inadequacy, and understands that the Freudian simplicity of Regis’s family tragedy will not explain the rawness of Regis’s hurting. More than this, he knows the terror of rejection, the powerlessness of his own actions and the internment that followed for the then young boy and he knows  _– hurts_  with how he knows – that Regis has not grown past these fears.

 

“Come now. We can do a little better than this” says Chilton, the need for proof of effective treatment spurring him on beyond tact or strategy.

 

The heavier Will’s breathing gets, the more the mask fogs in front of him. It seems as good a way as any to communicate the idiocy of expecting answers when he’s effectively gagged. 

 

“I need you to make sure you’re taking in everything you can, because we need to review your progress,” he says, like he’s bartering for conversation. “And uh, I think it’s important that we give you some history on Regis Mace. You’ve heard him, I’m sure…”

 

Again, Will knows that he has heard this before. He offers one sullen nod and wonders how long it is until he’s given the next round of medication to keep everything subdued.

 

“One of the things that Regis used to say, when he was admitted here last year…”

 

Will tries not guess how much of Regis’s current state has been manufactured by the hospital.

 

“…is that his actions – the ones that got him here – were simply an expression of  _freedom_.”

_Because you remember what it was to be confined all that time. You know the feeling of rope keeping you tethered here, away from where you can do more harm. You know what it is to feel trapped…_

 

And Will understands that Chilton’s design is so complete, the way he’s trapping him here in so many different ways _and there’s no escaping for you, is there?_

 

“So what I need from you is to sit tight…” Chilton advances as he speaks, stands over Will and places steady hands onto his shoulders. The mask fogs no matter how much Will tries to find him _self_  in this set up. Chilton carries on speaking and Will’s breath keeps jarring, catching inside his throat, inside the mask. “Wait” he hears, and then what could have been “ _rot_ ” and then the light ducks out of the room and he’s utterly and totally alone  _and you know what’s coming for you_  and  _this is not your reality_ except in all realities he still can’t breathe and  _this fear you’ve adopted is what is going to kill you if you let it_.

 

*

 

When the door reopens, it’s not clear how much time has passed or if the light in the room was ever really out at all. One orderly – one not-Chilton man – walks in, surveys Will and tugs each restraint in turn. Satisfied, he walks back towards the door. Will does nothing more than stare; he’s glazed with a stinking, panicked sweat and feels tension mounting around his stomach, his bladder, and  _this is not how_ you _deal with_ your _fear. Remember who you are_. 

 

Eight accelerated heartbeats later, the orderly returns with two accomplices, pushing an angular, cuffed, wooden wheelchair. The occupant of the chair, with his stressed black hair – uncut for months – and his dark, wavering irises lolling towards the back of his skull, loose from too many meds  _– it’s a mirror, isn’t it_?

 

Chilton wanders into view behind them. “Meet Regis Mace” he announces to the room. Regis rolls his head forward, rests his chin against a yellowed stain on his white jacket, and  _stares_. Will turns his head, stares at the wall.  _Two monkeys in a cage, trying to guess which one’s going to start throwing their faeces first_.

 

One of the orderlies – Will thinks he recognises him and tries not to focus on why – moves so that he’s stood behind Will, places two dark and cool hands on his head and manoeuvres his view forward. When Will grudgingly complies, stares ahead, the orderly doesn’t remove his hands.

 

“Tell me what you see now” says Chilton. “Regis. _Regis_.”

 

An orderly taps Regis on the cheek and Regis hisses.

 

He looks feral, or dead, or something in between _. Your reflection_. The more Regis stares, the more Will feels caught. _Caught out_.

 

“Tear you” murmurs Regis, staring right where Will is trying not to look, “gonna tear pieces out of you…”

 

It’s a threat or it’s a warning. Regis can’t be credited with control of his expression anymore, so there’s nothing that Will can read without seeing himself –  _seeing your truth_. The claustrophobia is too much and just because he _knows_ he didn’t used to have a problem with this, it doesn’t make it any easier now.

 

“Pay attention to this man” says Chilton and his breath is hot in Will’s ear. “There are more similarities than you’re admitting” he adds. Y _ou’re both doomed to the same goddamn hell_.

 

 “Get out” Regis is saying but the words turn into a drone. “…Out of your skins” and it’s impossible to be close enough to smell this man and to not feel the raw nerve ends that he’s running on. _This is what Chilton is trying to turn you into._ Except, _he hardly needs to try._

 

Regis lurches in the wooden chair, jerks as though trying to move towards Will. He’s held back by the orderlies closest to him, but the lack of more heavy handed restraints – beyond the jackets they seem to favour here - suggests that he’s not even got the strength to warrant them anymore _. This is where you’re headed_.

 

It takes so much strength just to keep himself from  _understanding_  and no amount of resolve can keep Regis out. Not when he’s close enough to spit breath, a rancid, chemical breath that penetrates through the mask and Regis is not looking at anyone else in this room except Will and  _damnit_  this is easier with dead bodies than with the living. With the dead, there are pauses and the feeling that no matter how bad it was, at some point  _it stops_. This, the present, Regis’s present, it’s overwhelming.  _Fight this_.

 

He almost misses the conversation taking place to his left, in the periphery of his hand-guided vision. Chilton, he’s speaking to another orderly and this shouldn’t matter – Regis is yelling and spitting and yet Will feels guilty for this because he understands  _why_  – but Chilton’s words stand out above everything else. Something about the word “she” resonates and sounds like a word meant for Will, not a word meant for Regis or for this. “He’s not taking visitors” he hears. Between the conspiratorial muttering and the shouting and the spitting, Will gets lost again in Regis’s fear. The more he tries to pull out of it, to see the set up of two idiots mopping up each other’s neuroses as nothing less than ridiculous, the harder it is not to feel the shame of this collective idiocy.

 

“Tell Bloom,” he hears, and the name rings like a siren –  _the ambulance is coming for you_  – “Tell her, if she’s so… _keen_ on avoiding the doctor’s visits, I’ll make room for her tomorrow.”

It’s the first charge of hope that’s managed to infiltrate this place and the implied meaning,  _she wants to visit, why didn’t you even guess that you were being lied to,_ and then,  _idiot_ , there’s enough of a pole for Will to hang on to, just enough to pull him out of this hole.

 

*


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Will blinks and feels his last bits of control unfurling._ This is not the person who should be helping you fix this.

 

Will is trapped, in every sense. He’s telling his body to move and it won’t, he’s pulling at his muscles and the less he moves the more it all hurts and the more it hurts the more he knows  _something really bad is about to happen_.

 

“Will, I need you to listen to me.”

 

Will re-enters the living world and he’s back in the cage.  _Nothing is moving, you’re trapped and something bad is on the way._  The shape in front of him morphs into focus, looks like Hannibal. He feels the familiarity of it – of this crocodile smiling visitor again, finds the comfort in the fact that  _he’s remembered this happening before_  – and as the focus grows, he knows that if he’s going to secure his release, get someone to prove that  _he is not who they keep telling him he is,_ that he will need someone who isn’t Hannibal stood there.

 

 “Why are you here?” he asks the man, words coming out in little spit balls. “Why do you need to check that I’m still right where you left me?” His attempts at hiding his thoughts fall a little shorter than he intends.

 

“I am not the one who left you here, good Will” comes the unphased response. “And I am here because I am concerned for you, and because I believe that Chilton’s methods are having a poor effect on the person I consider to be my friend.”

 

“Perhaps if I hadn’t been set up for the crimes of  _another person_ , Doctor, I would not be at risk from Dr Chilton’s…methods.”

 

Hannibal makes a non-committal noise in response and says nothing about the warring factions of Will’s emotions currently playing out in his facial expressions. There’s a wavering between powerful unvented fury and a total, hysterical implosion and either outcome seems imminent.

 

“It occurs to me” says Hannibal gently “that there are things about your current position that are upsetting to you now where they may not have been before. Am I correct?”

 

Will blinks and feels his last bits of control unfurling.  _This is not the person who should be helping you fix this_.

 

 Hannibal answers Will’s silence with more speculation.

 

“It seems that it is the captivity aspect of your current situation that is bothering you the most, and that this is what Chilton is putting all his focus on.” The air around him feels hotter, closer. “Can you tell me, how many hours in a day you have charge of your own movements?”

 

Will chews on the inside of his lip and refuses an answer.

 

“He wants you immersed, confined,” continues Hannibal, “and at his mercy, and this is, I fear too much for you.  Is it?”

 

The question sounds like the trigger and the shot manifests in a shout; something like crying and something like a demand and Will has no control over its trajectory. It’s a pain that is total and it’s escaping him along with every unresolved frustration. _Too much_. It’s too much for _anyone._  

 

“You cannot be nearly as trapped as you think” says that voice, now somehow distant, “if you still have the freedom to let go of this noise inside you.”

 

Will cannot see the shape of his doctor any more. Through the  _hating, rage, hurting_ blur he sees another shape melding into it and feels his scream catch in his throat like a gag. _Not now_. Not when everything feels so raw and  _why now_ _?_ Why not sooner  _when it could have helped_?

 

“It is as I told you” says Hannibal to the new shape in the room. “He is not coherent enough to know his own mind. It seems your fears for him are being confirmed.”

 

Will can hear the words but the meaning is not enough to calm the shaking, relax his throat enough to let real words out.

 

“What are they  _doing_  to him?” asks this new voice. It’s fierce with caring, with strength, and it would be a balm were it not so unreachable right now.  _She came for you._ Except _, she’s not real, is she?_

 

“It seems they are trying to suppress his delusions” says the older doctor, giving credence to the reality of Alana’s presence in this room “…and the effect of this is that they are suppressing all other facets of the Will you once knew.”

 

“I’m here” says Will but the sound is lost and the second shape – the shape of Alana that he’s been  _so desperate_  to see - it blurs closer to Hannibal’s and it is too much.  _Everything is too much_.

“It is difficult but I remain optimistic that Will can find himself again. I still worry that his seeing you is –”

 

“No, don’t you dare” she utters, moving towards Will. Her tear-pinked eyes are almost close enough for him to focus on, her dark hair and clothes blurring around her like an aura.

 

“Will…can you hear me?” she asks and he wants to take her voice and drown himself in it.

 

His words stick and he’s still choking. His skin is damp and his chin feels coated in tears, in snot and this is not how he’d wanted this to go. “Yes” he tries, but the word isn’t there.

 

“Will, they’re trying to help you…” the hesitancy in her voice is louder than the words themselves. “…This is not the end. We’ll get to the bottom of this and you’ll –”

 

Her voice gets stuck on something too and Will’s still trying to answer her, to reassure her that he already knows how to get through this, he does,  _really_ , but he needs her to stay away from the man she came her with. He’s trying to tell her this but the only thing that’s audible is a stuttered “help.”

 

When he next looks up, Alana is further away and is finding her balance in the hatefully calm figure next to hers. The blur of words that follow between them speak of a kind of concerned intimacy that Will can’t process.

 

“Get out” he hears himself spitting out, quiet, phlegm filled words with no diction but he knows it’s been heard. In the same way, he knows, this still  _isn’t him_.

 

*

 

They’d told him he’d been hysterical, that he’d hurt another member of staff, that he’d spent an entire day in the hospital ward taking his food through a tube, but they wouldn’t tell him exactly  _why_.

 

It’s three days since the visit until Will starts to regain any sense of control. He’s back in his cell where they trust him to piss on his own schedule in the hours between therapy and restraints. He learns that the best way to deal with his unwanted medication is to swallow it when they give it to him, but to keep his breath light and to only swallow once, no matter how uncomfortable. Then, providing he’s unsupervised, he takes one mouthful of whatever dinner mulch they post through his door. He learns to tense his oesophagus, to force it back up – holding it in his mouth because he doesn’t trust Chilton not to be watching. He learns to heave again, to spit out that first mouthful and whatever portion of undigested meds have been left in his gullet. It’s not ideal; some of the medications are absorbed before he has a chance to purge them, and the taste of vomit does nothing to make the food here any better.

 

He feels the shaking withdrawal of medications leaving his system, of a soreness in his throat, and a feeling like fog beginning to lift.

 


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“He wants you immersed, confined,” continues Hannibal, “and at his mercy, and this is, I fear too much for you. Is it?”_

“Here’s an example of the progress we’re making so far” announces the smiling dragon, the hateful doctor Chilton. Will looks up, blinks at the too bright lights and sees three people sat in a row opposite him, viewing him like packaged meat. Chilton is the only one wearing white; the others, a sallow faced lady and a casually severe man advancing past middle age, are in neutral shades of greys and black. Despite the distance between them – approximately the length of one body, Will guesses – the two guests are sitting further back in their chairs, as though Will’s presence in this room makes them nervous.

 

“So you’re familiar with the background” narrates Chilton, “to recap – our dangerous patient here…” he gestures towards where Will is not even bothering to test his restraints, not with so many eyes fixed on him.

 

“…His ability to…immerse himself…in the thought patterns of anyone meant that he had –  _had_  – a lot of uses. But the effects of this immersive behaviour were, as you’re aware, more dangerous than the FBI were aware of.”

 

The older man nods staunchly, as though confirming that he’d done his homework and that this was all repeated information. Will tries to find a spot in the room to focus on and a noise that isn’t Chilton’s voice, but beyond a mild hum of the heater there’s nothing for him to pin himself to.  _Stay with this,_ something reminds him _. Let him think he’s winning_.

 

 “Now the crux of this current treatment – which I believe, even at this early stage is proving successful – is to disassemble the protection that the immersive behaviour was producing. The belief is that by encouraging the patient to immerse in _un_ favourable situations and character profiles, we would weaken the platform that the patient is using…”

 

“…But your belief, you say, is based on a certainty that neither yourself, the circumstances, nor the patient has actually confirmed?” There’s no hostility in the woman’s words, but Chilton bristles all the same.  


“To which belief are you alluding?” he asks, casting a barely perceptible, unanswered, pleading look to the man on his right.

 

Will feels his breath heating up the mask, feels the gathering of moisture above his top lip and _learn from this. Listen to what he says because this will be your weapon against him_.

 

“You’re basing your profiling of this patient on the idea that he’s experienced profound abuse,” states the woman, sounding faintly frustrated at having to spell out the flaws in the method, “…but your report made no mention of the origin of this, nor have any of your sessions addressed this. I just wondered –“  


“– I agree” states Chilton “that there is not the documented proof, at this earlier phase of treatment, because I believe the patient is suppressing this more adeptly than any of our previous cases. As I say, he is a remarkable study –”

 

“– who is being treated as though his psychopathy is directly attributable to a set of experiences that may not have occurred, and who is being manipulated into taking on another person’s exp–”

 

“You’re over simplifying” blurts Chilton, a flush of pink rising in his ochre cheeks.

 

“Dr Leith is right” offers the older doctor. “Your conduct in this case poses an ethical dilemma.”

 

_Everyone’s fighting over your damage._

Chilton stares at Will – partly, it seems, to avoid eye contact with the other doctors, partly to convey a sense of blame. _You did this to me_. Will experiences the smallest spike of satisfaction at the obvious discomfort and only wishes it could be amplified.

 

“The board is considering,” continues the older doctor “that without progress of a definable type, that this patient should be moved to an alternative facility and be handled in more…traditional ways.”

 

Something knots Will’s stomach and he can’t tell if it’s hope for a way out of here– or the fear that whatever new alternative awaits could somehow be worse than Chilton.

 

“Are you speaking on behalf of the board…” asks Chilton, standing up and turning his back to Will. Will imagines for one burning second that he’s not tethered into place and that he can tear the skin from Chilton’s shoulders, force his skull to the ground and pin it underfoot, splitting it at the hinge of his jaw. One glorious second, and then he’s back to feeling his circulation weakening and the smell of plastic, not of blood. “Or are you, in this instance, actually the board?”

 

Dr Leith and the older doctor smile neutrally and stand up, handshake-ready.

 

“We’d advise you to gather more conclusive findings before his current placing is reviewed by County. I’d say eight days, tops” says Dr Leith wanly. “I’d also suggest keeping your discussions about the patient a little more guarded from their subject.”

 

*

 

Poking out of the haze, Will has a memory of another visitor – and he couldn’t be sure that this  memory was real, either – but the visitor planted a row of thoughts in his head about how patients in places like these have managed to slip their locks. These little thoughts, snapshots of a near-freedom, these are important, the visitor had said, and Will doesn’t know if they are or not but when he thinks about this he feels a little less like an animal caught in a trap, waiting.

 

*

 

It’s gone 9 in the evening when Chilton knocks four times on Hannibal’s front door. He’s greeted almost immediately, as Hannibal’s welcome gives the vague impression that his visit may have been anticipated.

 

“Frederick. Please, come in.”

 

Chilton nods gratefully, tries to keep his composure. It’s never clear whether these interactions with the psychiatrist are a dance or a battle, but either option requires steady footing. “I regret that dinner ended some hours hence, so if it is a feast you sought, I fear this will be a disappointing visit for you” states the host, taking Chilton’s camelhair jacket from him to hang it, stroking the fabric in what might be construed as a gesture of reverence.

 

“Thank you, uh, Dr Lecter” says the nervous doctor “but I’m afraid this visit is rather more arbitrary than I would like.”

  
“And I was beginning to think I was only visited for my cooking” smiles the psychiatrist. “Come, allow me to pour you a whiskey, and share what troubles have sent you to my house at this hour.”

 

Chilton accepts the tumbler of what Hannibal refers to as a “driver’s measure” of scotch, perches on the chair Hannibal gestures him towards, then attempts to adopt a more comfortable poise as Hannibal settles opposite him.

 

“I am assuming that this has something to do with Mr Will Graham, yes?” prompts Hannibal.

 

Chilton looks down at his whiskey as though for courage, then meets Hannibal’s half smile.

 

“You’ll be pleased to know that he’s almost given up blaming you for everything” says Chilton in a sad laugh.

 

“I’d be lying if I said this didn’t relieve me,” states Hannibal lightly. “Investigations are time consuming affairs. But if this is not an issue pertaining to Will’s thoughts about me, then I can only assume you require my thoughts about Will?”

   

 “He’s not being as…forthcoming. As I’d anticipated, I mean.”

 

Chilton stares at Hannibal – he’s not sure he means it to look imploring, but he’s painting himself in too many shades of vulnerable.

 

“You mean to say that he is not responding to your attempts to make him seem weak, yes?” asks Hannibal. There’s a kindness in his voice which isn’t matched by the flicker in his eyes and the tilt of his smile.

 

Chilton finds himself conceding; his current predicament isn’t lending him sufficient leverage to grab the upper hand.

 

“Perhaps,” suggests Hannibal, “you have been underestimating your patient. _Our_ patient.” He takes a sniff of his drink before sipping it and gives Chilton a space in which to answer him.

 

“Oh, I don’t underestimate his strength!” says Chilton, wholly misunderstanding. “It’s more that…I am being pressured for answers, and the timeframe I have for these is not the sort of timeframe that Mr Graham seems prepared to work with” he smiles, and there’s sweat creeping across his brow again.

 

“I seem to recall you telling me that time was one of your allies?” counters Hannibal, amusement apparent in his smile as he watches Chilton swallow most of his whiskey in a nervous sleight of hand.

 

“The nature of the professional – the clinically professional – practice, it sometimes requires adaptation.” Chilton’s eyes roam the office, looking for something to offer him support, encouragement –anything to take the edge from the encroaching sense of humiliation.

 

“What I mean to say is, I am worried that without Mr Graham’s cooperation, they are going to remove him from my…care, and thus damage not only my progress, but also all access that we have to him right now.”

 

There’s a quiet exhale, inhale, and a relaxing of shoulders that Chilton had been unaware he’d been tensing. None of it escapes Hannibal’s stare.

 

“So you’ve come to me, because you are concerned for Will’s safety? Because you wish to see him protected from these outsiders? Or because you believe that I can get Will to provide the answers you seek?”

 

The rest of Chilton’s whiskey disappears before he can speak fully again.

 

“They will plan on shocking him, Dr Lecter, and you must be able to appreciate that this is not a desirable outcome for either of us.”

 

His omission of regard for any opinion Will may have on the matter doesn’t appear to register.

 

“I am hoping that we would be able to formulate a way in which we can…combine our expertise…” says Chilton, allowing Hannibal to refill the glass he’s still clutching on to, “…in order to provide for our patient as best we can.”

 

“How are you suggesting we go about enacting such a plan?” asks the psychiatrist. “I assume your timeframe is something that may require speedier action?”

 

This is the point where Chilton’s doubts and hesitations culminate. 

 

“In order for him to open up,” starts the doctor, “I need him – he needs to follow the pattern of the patient he identifies with. And I need this to be with someone he _knows_. ”

 

Hannibal’s distaste is less subtle; it is only masked by the slight clouding that the whiskey affords Chilton’s vision.

 

“I know you think this is a futile route, doctor,” continues Chilton, “but part of what allowed Regis to open up to me was accepting that his vulnerability was what owned him.”  


Hannibal is not a person to roll his eyes. He’s aware that the gesture is antagonistic and impolite. What he does instead is to convey a discreet character assassination with little more than a glance at the person speaking in inanities, and a cursory glance at the multitude of things more significant than the dulling words (his bookshelves; his statues; his sketches, framed and mounted; the condensation forming on the windows above where they sit…)

 

“So you wish to make Will feel vulnerable” he says. “You have ample tools, and from what I can tell, the man has been trussed for your studies since his internment began. He resents me more deeply than he trusts.  I hope you’ll forgive my ignorance but I fail to see how I can be of support in this instance.”

 

The way he says it, as though he’s _not_ the person with a hook under Will’s skin, pulling it off in inches, as though he has _no idea_ the grasp he has on that mind – it’s almost convincing.

 

“I hate to supplicate myself in this way” says Chilton, with possibly more honesty than he’s ever expressed to Dr Lecter, or _anyone_ , “but I’ve been the one to deal with him after your visits. If anyone is able to engage Will Graham in a way that might encourage a revelation, I believe it is you.”

 

“Elaborate.”

 

“Put simply, Dr Lecter, I need him scared.”

 

Lecter allows himself a sip of the whiskey, embraces the hazelnut that infused it, the burnt wood – oak – that held it, the reluctant sweetness of the amber – and nods towards Dr Chilton.

 

“In the manner that your other patients have been…scared?”

 

“You always said you were supportive of the unconventional, Dr Lecter.”

 

“Give me one hour, tomorrow” he states, “and I’ll do what I can.”

 

“Half an hour.”

 

*


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Chilton is hoping for fear” he states simply. “I merely want your safe removal from this place, but I need to trust that you will not reveal the gift I have left you.”_

 

When Will wakes in the near darkness, his cell feels colder than he’s used to. He’s not attached to the bed and this in itself is a gratitude, but the cold is  _intense_. Feet away from his own walls, someone is screaming. He knows, before he has a chance to organise his thoughts, that the person screaming is Regis. And he thinks that the screams are not as subdued as he used to hear, but then, he reasons, maybe his thoughts are not as subdued as he is used to, either.

 

He curls his toes into the coarse cover on the bed, clutches his elbows to himself to keep his body heat in and works on organising his thoughts into a shape that will get him out of here.

 

Allies. He needs allies. Chilton seems in short supply of them, he thinks, remembering the difficult charade of the previous day, the way he’d been shunted back to his cell with the kind of almost-malpractice roughness that Chilton only ever encourages when he’s rankled.

 

And then he registers how easily he remembers this detail; that it came to him so quickly and without obstacle. As though the meds are being unstuck from his thoughts.  

 

_Remember it all._

 

 

*

 

It’s just before two in the afternoon when Chilton greets the psychiatrist in the hospital foyer.  The doctor’s appearance is that of someone who has been running loops through the hospital since dawn, and this is echoed in his wilted posture and sweat-ruddy skin. His suit appears to be softening under his white coat – stained under the collar, notes Hannibal, with what appears to be phlegm spat from someone’s bloodied gums. The psychiatrist offers a minutely serene smile, extends his hand to Chilton and says nothing of the odour of panic that saturates the air around them.

 

“We’ve moved him to a quieter ward for today” he states, reciprocating the handshake. “Which is fortunate with the uh, the racket.”

 

Hannibal nods in a hollowly deferential gesture and follows Chilton’s laboured path through the busy wards, past the increasingly severe security warnings.

 

“One is surprised to see so much activity on a ward when it is so far from a full moon” comments the psychiatrist, the knowing lilt to his voice missed entirely by Chilton as they round a quieter corner into a corridor holding only three solid-door cells.

 

“Maybe the full moon is something you take stock in where  _you_  come from” says Chilton snippily, stopping outside the final door, “but we’re looking into the suppliers of some of our stock. It’s as though the effects of our sleepers wore off overnight.” Hannibal smiles openly. “Damn outsourcers” mutters Chilton, reaching into an inner pocket of the jacket for a rectangular shaped key. “Now. I’m assuming you would want complete privacy with my patient?”

 

Hannibal nods, allows his lips to curl in what might look like anticipation.

 

“Thirty minutes is a long time, Dr Lecter” says Chilton. “And we have taken measures that should ensure your safety , though I’m not sure if your…methods…will see that compromised. Do you want someone outside in case you require assistance?”

 

“I believe your resources are stretched far beyond offering anyone extra to me” says Hannibal. The amusement on his face clashes with the frown on Chilton’s. “Half an hour will be ample. Am I to assume, then, that you will be in charge of the unlocking of the door?” He looks pointedly at the rectangular key in Chilton’s hands.

 

“As I say,  _we_  have taken measurements, but we cannot guarantee that his confinement would remain secure during this time if the key were to be in there _with_ him” says the doctor.

 

“And he will not have heard this conversation through the door?” queries Hannibal. “Unless dangling the chance of escape is the new carrot you are choosing to tempt him with.”

 

“This conversation is between us only” says Chilton, leaning in to unlock the heavy metal handle. “I’ll be back for you” he smiles, as Hannibal stepss into the dark stone-walled cell and looks down at the hunched shape inside it.

 

*

 

“Will.”

 

The damp face that stares up at him is defiant, despite all evidence of physical distress. The chains holding his scuffed, crossed ankles to the floor look merely decorative, and the straitjacket looks like little more than a rubix cube presented to him as a way to alleviate the boredom. The lack of covering of much of his lower half has his cold skin on colder, dirty floor tiles, and appears to contradict every healthcare oath and code of practice that the doctor has ever read of. If nothing else, it’s _vulgar._

 

“Are you aware of Chilton’s plans for you?” asks the psychiatrist, clear in his intention to not waste his thirty minutes.

 

The face nods up at him, half held in a mask and conveying more betrayal in a single glance than Hannibal has seen in any other of his victims.

 

“Then you understand my visit?” he asks.

 

There’s a pause, but Will offers a tentative nod. Hannibal doesn’t appear to trust it entirely.

 

“He is expecting to you to break.”

 

Will’s lack of surprise is only slightly concerning.

 

“He has asked me here to…” there’s pause for him to choose the least threatening combination of words.

 

“…To open you up to him.”

  
Will flinches, in a small reflexive way.  Hannibal continues.

 

“It appears he is still of the belief that you have experienced a trauma of…  _this_ … nature in the past” states his psychiatrist, not elaborating on what the ‘this’ entails but reading comprehension in Will’s eyes.

 

“I am not the abused patient he is expecting to find” he spits into the mask.

 

Hannibal nods.  “But, he is expecting me to open _something_ up to him” he offers. Will’s expression suggests that every facet of himself that could be shared already has been, but something about Hannibal’s voice asking makes him listen _. That subtly persuasive authority_. Still.

 

“He is afraid that I will leave this room today without the evidence that will implicate you in the crimes you are accused of executing _._ ”

 

“The crimes you are speaking of extend beyond Abigail Hobbs” states Will, the words getting stuck in the mask. “They aren’t mine to feel responsible for.”

 

For the first time that Will can remember, Hannibal doesn’t try to fight him on this point.

“ _I_  am afraid that I might leave here today without the means to exonerate you” says the psychiatrist. Will’s expecting a fight at every corner and the apparent support takes him off guard.

 

“You mean you –“ he starts, but Hannibal is ahead of him.

 

“I am confident that you will achieve your freedom, though securing your release does not require you to put me in your place” says the older man. “But itdoes require manipulation on your part.”

 

The way Will’s breath colours the bottom half of his face white under the mask, it amplifies the expression of ragged fury in his red-lined eyes.

 

“Manipulation is more  _your_  area, Doctor.”

 

Not letting the smile drop from his face, Hannibal crouches on the ground, putting his stature a little closer to Will’s but still retaining a good few inches of height above the patient. “I believe you may be a more adept pupil than you credit yourself with” he says, extending a hand to Will’s face which he instinctively pulls away from

 

“This flinching at my contact. It’s a new behaviour, a learned one” comments the doctor, reaching long fingers through Will’s hair, resting them on the catch that secures the mask in place. Will’s shoulders tense under the jacket and the movement sends referred pain shooting through his arms. 

 

“For a device which causes you such distress” soothes the doctor, “it’s a surprisingly simple one to remove.” He reaches his other hand round to the back of Will’s head, his crouching balance now depending on Will not trying to offset him. He cradles the back of Will’s head and it’s a tender gesture, in the way that a mother suffocating her starving young might be.

 

“Just how is Chilton expecting you to get these answers?” asks Will, sounding something between peevish and scared.

 

Hannibal snaps a catch and releases the mask, pulling it away from the skin it’s digging into. The breath that Will lets out sounds like the first exhale in days, as though the mask had been holding everything in. His chest drops and he tilts forward. Hannibal places the mask on the ground and raises his hands to Will’s shoulders, steadying him. For a moment, the room is filled with the sounds of Will’s breathing, heavy and relieved, until the next moment when Will tries to extricate himself from the temporary comfort of Hannibal’s grasp, jerks away towards the back wall and feels the pull of the jacket, of his ankles on the floor and of too-tense muscles screaming at not being able to move.

 

“Will, you need to focus” states Hannibal, shifting his body weight so that he’s crouching closer to where Will is understanding that there is no more give in the length of chain.

 

“My time here is finite and we have a lot to cover, so you may not want to trust me right now, but I can guarantee this opportunity will not arise again and you will be better off for embracing it.”

 

Will leans his head back and tries to look down the length of his nose at Hannibal, attempts to tap into the strength he felt in the hours before he was dragged into this room.

 

“Get on with it, then” he says.

 

There’s violence in the stare that Hannibal levels at Will, but he speaks carefully. “Have you ever removed this mask yourself?”

 

Will shakes his head at the clear-white contraption on the floor. “But you are aware of how you can?” he asks, and Will knots his forehead.

 

“How?” he demands. “You did that with your hands. I don’t have that luxury.”

 

“You’re more resourceful than this” chides Hannibal. “And you’re certainly not as helpless as Chilton is encouraging you to believe.”  


“Please, tell me more about how strong I am in this place” says Will, gesturing his defeat as much as the restraints allow it.

 

“You’re starting to sound like you again” smiles the doctor. “Now. Pay attention. The clasp at the back of this device – you see it?”

 

Will looks at the catch and it’s so simple; like a bag fastener, something one would only need one hand to pop open, if they only had one hand free. The closer he looks, the more he sees the spot on the clasp that would break if pressure was applied to it. His sensory memory tells him where on his skull this part digs in, and supplies him with clues as to which surfaces he could connect it with in order to create the necessary impact. The thought is a comfort, except, _what good is freeing your face when the rest of you is still stuck here?_

 

“Why are you showing me this?” he asks.

 

“I would have thought it obvious” states Hannibal, standing up from the floor to allow the circulation to return to his legs. “I do not wish to see you suffer unnecessarily, and it appears that the mask is causing you suffering.”

 

“If you don’t get the answers you need, it seems I’m being moved out of here anyway” states Will.   


“You’re a fool if you believe that being moved to an alternative institution is an escape” states Hannibal, “and I imagine they’d be willing enough to keep you confined with any approved methods Chilton suggested. So, listen."  


Will hates him in this moment. Hates the insight he has, hates the way he can dismantle everything that is occurring with such callous precision, and hates that as soon as this session ends, Hannibal will be able to walk away.

 

_Because this still feels like therapy._

 

“Chilton is imagining that right now, I am attempting to make you feel exposed to your very core” says Hannibal, crouching again so that his face is in front of Will’s.

 

“And aren’t you?” asks Will, and it’s the first time Hannibal has seen a smile on his face, albeit a twisted one.

 

The smile is matched; a game of civility.

 

“Chilton’s lack of subtlety when dealing with matters of the mind would be a mere irritation, were it not putting you at risk” says the doctor.

 

“I’m not sure he’s the only one who’s been less than careful about the risk they put me in the way of.”

 

“You know he believes that your problems are of a sexual nature?”

 

Will backs himself further into the wall, leans over his legs as a way of covering himself as much as the set up alows. “That’s…idiotic. And misguided.”

 

“I know” agrees Hannibal. “Tell me. Why might he have reached this conclusion?”

 

“Because he’s a moron” says Will, and the look that Hannibal offers in response is the epitome of pride.

 

“He also believes that I am a threat to you in this way, too” says the doctor, and Will’s expression conveys a minute flash of fear, then reverts to disbelief. “Tell me, Will. Why do you think you’ve been presented today in this way?”

 

As though cementing his point, Hannibal rests the palms of his hands on Will’s bare knees, noting the delayed flinch.

 

“This fear you are expressing now, he’s been cultivating it because he believes it to be real. He wishes to exploit it” states Hannibal coolly. Will bites his lip, inhales and fixes Hannibal with a stare.  Hannibal’s hands remain where they are, warm against Will’s clammy skin.

 

“I’m not quite seeing how you dancing around the issue is helping me, doctor.”

 

“There are limits to what even he will try, as your designated care giver –”

 

Will coughs out a laugh.

 

“– So he has sent me in here as an outsider and as his alleged ally. My time here is running out” says Hannibal “but if you are to beat Chilton, you need to humour his superstitions about you and about the damage he thinks you have suffered.”

 

“You mean pretend that I’m like Regis?” he asks.

 

“Not Regis, no. Regis is, I believe, another patient who offered more complexities than Chilton was able to understand, and Chilton has explained these away in favour of a neat theory. I care about you, Will. I do not wish for you to be entwined with any theory of that man’s, especially if it will do you harm.”  


Will laughs again. It’s a hollow and spiteful sound.

 

“You have to listen to me” states the doctor, one hand moving towards Will’s face as though trying to smooth the laugh from the creases of his jaw, then clutching it in place. “If he believes himself correct, he’ll be too busy congratulating himself on fixing you to see you rise above him…”

 

“I’m hardly rising from here” says Will, chancing another stare at Hannibal’s eye level.

 

“I’m sorry that your confidence in this so low, but at this point you may need to consider how very little you have to lose, and the freedom that can be gained from acknowledging this.”

 

Will tenses inside the jacket, imagines momentarily that the positioning of his arms is a deliberate attempt to hug at himself and provide a barrier between his physical self and the emotional barrage of Hannibal’s persistent manipulation.

 

“If you let him think he’s right, then you’ve opened a door that may lead to your exit.”  


“Why would I believe this?” asks Will.

 

“Because if I leave here when I’m collected and nothing has changed in your condition, you’ll be transferred out of here within the week and will be on a schedule of shock therapies which will have your brain cooked –”

 

“– More than it was when you were looking out for me?”

 

“Were I in the position you would find yourself in, I would begin to look upon the notion of death as a comfort. And this is not what I wish for you, dear Will.”

 

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have –“  


Hannibal quiets him by moving his hand across his mouth and applying more pressure than the gesture requires, forcing Will’s head back to the wall. “Listen to me. We have a handful of minutes until I am to be escorted out of this room, and if you are to retain any semblance of who you are, or any hope of getting out, you will need to give Chilton every impression of being on the cusp of the revelation he seeks from you.”

 

Will conveys his most convincing expression of hateful acceptance beneath Hannibal’s hand.

 

“I suspect you can convince him of your emotional unravelling on your own” says Hannibal without irony. “In terms of physicalities, I confess that I am wary of playing along with the crass notions he holds, as I believe propagation of such simplistic idiocy makes the world an uglier place.”

 

Will jerks against the hand, yanks his legs against the chain on the floor.

 

“But if he is to believe that you have been affected by today’s encounter, then he will expect this to be reflected in your appearance.”

 

As Will’s eyes flash with a hopeless kind of fear, Hannibal’s convey a near apology, clouded by something like hunger.

 

“There’s not the time for you to fight this” he says in a low voice, close enough to Will’s ear for him to feel moisture gathering in his ear canal in its wake. “It’s a shame; I imagine you’d be an excellent opponent.” At this, Hannibal removes the hand from Will’s knee and reaches into his jacket pocket, shifting his balance from his heels to his knees. He reaches under the inadequate gown, jabs something tiny, sharp and _metal_ into the skin at the top of Will’s leg, forcing it far enough in that the non-pointed end is embedded under a layer of dermis. Will shakes under him, the inch-long intrusion splicing through nerve endings. Hannibal shifts the hand covering Will’s mouth, leans his face in to the patch of unshaven jaw beneath his wrist, and _bites_.

 

 The scream Will tries to make judders through his chest and reverberates through Hannibal’s grasp.

“Now you’ve got your weapon” says the doctor, rolling his thumb over the newly secreted slip of metal; wedged close enough to where the entry mark is almost disguised by hair. “Strong enough to cut through flesh, and canvas too, I would think” he says and he’s still so _calm_. “And if my timing is correct...”

 

Will is close to hyperventilating and the expression in his eyes is murder.

 

“…Chilton should be appearing very shortly and will be able to see exactly what we need him to see.”

 

The marks from Hannibal’s teeth are already reddening and the skin has broken in more points than the human jaw should be able to split so readily. “Trust me” he says, grabbing Will by the shoulders and waiting for a shout of pain that doesn’t come.

 

“Of everyone” says the profiler, through grinding teeth, “that I have ever encountered, you are by far the worst.”

 

Hannibal brushes off the understatement, puts one hand to the floor to collect traces of the filth and sweat on it, and smears the findings onto Will’s jacket. He looks the way a parent might, when preparing a child for communion.

 

“Chilton is hoping for fear” he states simply. “I merely want your safe removal from this place, but I need to trust that you will not reveal the gift I have left you.” He thumbs at the embedded metal, the new pressure sending aftershocks through Will.  He swipes at the small clot of blood collecting at the wound entrance, stemming it with something squeezed from a tube that Will assumes must have been secreted along with the weapon. “I regret having to do this” he says, licking his thumb and then reaching for the mask “but we mustn’t let him think that I’ve been ineffective.”

  
Will tries to speak but his jaw locks in pain and his eyes are streaming involuntarily. Hannibal pushes the plastic into place and secures the lock. He lets his hands rest either side of Will’s face, pressing the plastic onto the broken skin and watching tiny pools of blood forming under it.

 

“I have faith in you” says the doctor, resting his mouth at the top of Will’s hair line and proffering a dry kiss to the sweat-matted curls.  “And if you think that I simply sought to destroy you, your ignorance of our relationship runs deeper than I imagined” he says. “I’m rooting for you. Now, to succeed, remember; play scared, and smart.”

 

At this, he pushes Will’s head into the wall in a short, violent move, arranges him on the ground in a simple tangle with the chains, stands, smoothes his suit, and waits for the click of the door to release him.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter will be up tomorrow. Thank you to everyone who's stayed with it/commented/left kudos!


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The glazed eyes staring at something just beyond the room don’t bother him, and neither does the wetness of blood as he pushes the blade into the open wound._

“I believe that I have made the progress you were hoping for, Doctor” says Hannibal as the harried doctor walks them away from Will’s cell. Behind them, orderlies are arranging secure transportation of the unconscious prisoner to the hospital ward.

 

“ _Some_ progress,” corrects Chilton. “I’m not sure I would suggest that knocking him out was what I had in mind.”

 

“Then it is fortunate that you were not as specific about your thoughts in this matter, as I would not have wished to knowingly contradict them.”

 

“But you think he’ll talk now?” asks Chilton, and the air that clings to him is pungent with sweat.

 

“I believe he is riled, and this is what necessitated my defensive actions, I’m afraid. I assure you it was a minor knock on my part.” Hannibal’s mockery of deferential behaviour towards Chilton goes unnoticed. “I believe that he is, as you say, scared and therefore possibly more pliable…”

 

They round a corner into the brighter lights of the institution, where the rushing panic from earlier appears to be subduing. Chilton unlocks another of the gates and gestures for Hannibal to walk ahead.

 

“I would advise giving him some time to allow his emotions to regroup,” says Hannibal graciously.

 

“Time is not in abundance. I brought you in to speed this _up_.”

 

“And I am confident that in doing so, you have. But poke at him now and he may yet retreat again. Allow him time to adjust before you poke him next.”  


“It sounds as though you’re telling me how to conduct _all_ my treatments on my patient, Dr Lecter” says Chilton with a biting smile.

 

“And it sounded as though there are things about the intimacy shared between myself and Mr Will Graham that you thought could bring you learning. I am merely offering what expertise I feel will be in our patient’s best interest.”  


The words being spoken so closely to where passing members of staff could hear, it’s making Chilton even more visibly saturated in discomfort.

 

“I merely meant,” said Hannibal, allowing Chilton to guide him towards the exit, “to put it crudely, that Will seems to be engaged in a cycle of hope of being understood, and of realisation of the falsity of that hope. I believe that my time with him today –“

 

“Please tell me you’ve not gone back to encouraging his delusions” interrupts Chilton.

 

“Nothing of the sort. Allow me to finish and I promise to be brief with your evidently pressured time” says Hannibal with dangerous sternness to his voice. “Today’s session was to bring Will to a realisation of one of his deepest fears.”

  
Hannibal knows his words are not entirely false; only that Will’s deeper fears were not the same ones his doctor believed.

 

“He will be recovering, in a sense – or to be crass, he will be experiencing a form of hope – of a safety from any similar experience. It is when he is confronted by the threat of it being repeated that I believe he will be his most receptive to your questioning.”

 

Chilton pauses with his hand on the door and sighs in a way which would be considered beyond impolite.

  
“Are you suggesting that I am going to need to invite you back for this?” he asks.

 

“Not necessarily. You are his current doctor after all. But should you need me tomorrow, I am available and can be here in a very short while if required.”

 

Chilton pushes the door open into the cold Baltimore air.

 

“Thank you. Goodbye Dr Lecter.”

 

 

 *

 

Will wakes in the hospital ward to a headache and a feeling like he’s been sliced open, but his nerves are too fired up to pinpoint the source of it all. He jerks his neck to try and look down, see where he’s damaged, but his memory fills in the gaps of what the extensive bed restraints won’t let him see.

 

_Oh_.

 

There’s a nurse a few feet away from him, filing medications and dressings into storage boxes on shelves and he tenses when the beeps from Will’s heart rate monitor change pace. The nurse looks towards Will and takes a further step back, clicks on a small black device in his pocket and announces “patient is conscious” to it.

 

Will _knows_ this ward; the memory of being in here since being committed is still woollen, still, but he knows it from when he worked here, for Jack, and finds himself filtering out the patterns and habits he remembered from that time. How to unhook metal cuffs from a bedframe, how to force his strength against another body to wholly incapacitate them, again, and… _how to remove something that’s been buried under your own skin._

 

“Sure. Ready for a transport team” says the nurse, staring at Will and not moving any closer.

_You’re only in the hospital ward because Hannibal wanted you in here._

_You’re_ here _because you’re figuring how to get out._

 

The cuffs this time, they’re not metal, they’re thicker than that. Wide, leather. Too much to cut through. And, he notes, returning from the loose fantasy of freedom, the nurse is not the obstacle between here and the escape. _But you’re starting to think about who is._

 

Three orderlies enter the ward and Will recognises one as Sem, the man who’d first brought him the mask. Will tries to unremember this as swiftly as he can to avoid his thoughts getting cluttered with anything else. Sem’s device this time – that his arms are being unpinned from the bed and pushed into – is the showering sleeve, and at least this means a wash and a break from the smell of antiseptic and Hannibal. And then he thinks, _hide that horrible little weapon Hannibal gifted you with_. And then, when he plans the posture he’ll have to use to keep the tiny injury concealed, to stop that tiny spike of metal from cutting him further inwards, not outwards, he realises he’ll be hunching over himself in a way that suggests a very specific vulnerability. _You’ll be convincing Chilton of exactly what he wants to believe._

 

And then, understanding that _it was still Hannibal who designed it this way_.

 

*

 

 

It’s an un-medicated sleep and a barely edible breakfast of toast later when Will is being walked to the same darker corridor as yesterday, the combination of the gown, the straitjacket and mask not as overwhelming as the feeling of the slip of metal in his skin. A few yards away, someone is yelling about security. Someone is yelling the word “Mace” and someone else is shouting “Jesus, _fuck_.” Will hides from any thoughts that might allow him to engage with the nearby panic and concentrates on pragmatic solutions to where he is, letting his legs follow the pace and path dictated by his escorts. _Play along_.

 

So far, no one has noticed his injury or the spotting of blood that works its way onto the white fabric. The habitual bruising from poor nutrition and ungentle handling, coupled with Hannibal’s more theatrical injuries, they provide a decent enough foil and Will’s newly developed skittishness seems to add to the barrier; the shower yesterday had been less invasive than others he remembers. The precariousness of this secret, though –

 

“Get Chilton” shouts one of the increasingly distant voices and Will hopes for a moment that Chilton will be needed for long enough that he won’t have time to see Will at all. And then, he hopes that maybe Regis will get his revenge and put an end to Chilton altogether.

 

As they pass through the final security gate, to the final corridor with its dark cell that doesn’t smell any cleaner then yesterday, Will coughs. It’s not a big movement and it’s shuttered inside his mask. He’s too concerned with the strip of sharp metal pointing too closely at his lower intestines to react to the grip of one of the orderlies sweeping his legs so they buckle, hands pinning him to the ground, inches from the cell door.

 

He’s held like this for a moment, face squished against plastic, arms pressing into his stomach and _at this angle your right hand is right above the weapon_. Will keeps the rest of himself still, lets the orderlies take his pulse, check the tension in his neck, assess their vulnerability in his presence.  He questions, silently, why they expect him to be so lethal but then, he reminds himself as his fingers prod through the canvas of the straitjacket, _you are trying to find a way to force a blade from under your own skin, and you’ve yet to have a day that you can remember that doesn’t include a fantasy about killing Chilton, even after you started to feel_ better.

 

The door swings open in front of him as one of the orderlies tugs at the sleeves of the jacket, wrapping Will’s arms too tight around him and losing the contact he’d made with the solid shape resting under his skin.

 

Will is lifted and repositioned on the floor inside the cell. He crosses his legs in front of him in a small gesture of obedience and is grateful when they don’t tether his ankles to the loop in the floor this time.

 

“Leave us” says Chilton, blacking out the light from the corridor, and Will looks down. _Play scared_. And, as his breathing starts making a fog of his face again, _don’t_ be _scared. Remember who you are_.

 

Chilton locks the room from the inside, placing the metal rectangular key inside the pocket of his white jacket. The way he stands, he looks every inch a man deprived of power in all other areas of his life. The stance and the enforced height differences he imposes on his interactions – his jutting facial hair, his wheedling stare – they’re all symptoms of a man who has never been given the reassurance he needs and _stop thinking about him_. 

 

“I understand that yesterday’s session was difficult for you” says the doctor with no amount of softness, and Will fights to not roll his eyes. He keeps his arms close to him, keeps fumbling through the fabric for leverage between his fingers and the metal in his skin. The more he tenses his stomach, his groin, the more he can feel it shifting, feels it splitting something. The more he focuses on this, the less he has to focus on Chilton.

 

“But we’re running out of time, so if you’re not cooperating when we do things the nice way, we have to get things from you in less nice ways.”

 

It’s when Will embraces how angry he is at Chilton’s lack of subtlety that he feels the tip of the metal poking through his skin. The pain is there, and it’s hot and sharp and ugly, but it’s more control than he’s felt in Chilton’s presence since they first met.

 

Chilton walks closer towards the wall that Will has backed himself against and the way he’ s trying to show his physical strength is awkward, like a skill never mastered. He stands so that his feet are parallel to Will’s bare knees and for a moment Will thinks about how unstable that position is if he were to only kick upwards. Then he thinks of the word _unstable_ and despite himself, smiles into the mask. He works on manoeuvring the blade through the canvas fabric, treats the action like therapy and tries to hide the motion. Every few twists, he manages to miss-direct the blade; feels it pressing inside and not out.

 

“In this room, normal protocol does not apply” says the doctor, standing closer so that Will has to crick his neck to look at him.

 

“No one will hear you, and no one believes you anyway” he says flippantly, spittle coming from his mouth. Will’s got the blade through his skin, through the first layer of fabric where it’s slipping in and out of his fingers and he needs the blood to not be showing. There’s nothing he can say to Chilton to convince him of anything, and his silence seems to be taken as evidence of a trauma induced shut down.

 

“Let me convince them that I know what scares you” says the doctor, crouching in front of Will with the balls of his feet pivoted under him “and they won’t give you shock therapy. Because you’ve had to deal with a lot of loss of autonomy where your body’s concerned, but your mind is still…”

 

At this, he leans in close – too close – one leg balancing on top of Will’s. It’s a gesture meant for intimidation, nothing more. He speaks the next words in a whisper, far too close to Will’s ear.

“…More or less yours.”  


It’s threat and it’s panic and partly it’s the pent up rage that’s been building for weeks that moves Will to jerk his head back into the wall. _Now is as good a time as any_. The crack of the mask doesn’t follow, and Chilton looks confused, then mistakenly knowing.

 

“Self-injury is not what will fix this” says Chilton, steadying his balance by resting his clammy hands above Will’s knees. “It’s another re-“

 

Will smacks back a second time and feels the clasp holding the mask give way. Before Chilton realises what he’s doing, he’s turned his head to generate enough friction between the plastic and the wall to pull the thing off him and Chilton looks _terrified_.

 

“Will, I need you to calm” states Chilton, moving his hands to Will’s shoulders in an effort to still him, leaning _too damn close_ , and that’s when the opportunity presents itself; Chilton’s neck, stretched and tensed and _right within reach_. Will lunges, teeth first, and bites. Feels arterial tubes compressing under his teeth and in the moment that he feels the struggle of muscle, _meat_ , caught his jaws, he’s not sure that he’s even human. He feels damp hands trying to strangle him, and feels his mouth gripping tighter. Everything tastes hot, like he’s found the source of life and now he can’t let it go, and it still feels like it’s happening to someone else. His bloodied fingers slice through the canvas, follow the tilt of his body, surge forwards and push the sputtering doctor to the floor.

 

It’s a few seconds until Will feels the pressure from Chilton’s hands soften around his throat, lets himself release his bite for long enough to calculate that gravity has him balancing above the doctor. He lowers himself into a straddle across the other man’s chest and catches his own breath. There’s not as much visible blood as he can taste – _it was probably his windpipe, not an artery_ – but it’s souring his mouth all the same. He spits; the pink and the red flecking Chilton’s still face beneath him. His free hand panics the blade against the straitjacket and rips a line that gives him enough leverage to pull it off. It’s three attempts until he gets through it, scrabbles to pull it away from his skin and feels something like power thrumming through his veins.

 

A beat later and his thighs tense and something feels more alive than his much-missed freedom. The body underneath him shifts; the smallest movement, like a flinch or a breath and it’s the only warning he has before Chilton’s whole body lurches. One arm forms a punch that connects with Will’s ear as legs jolt upwards, kneeing Will as close to the groin as he can reach. Will grabs a hand into Chilton’s hair for balance, misses the sound of the metal door to the cell opening and slams the palm of his other hand hard into Chilton’s neck. The wound is still open and dribbling, and Will’s pressing, _pressing_ , _pushing, pressing_ until there’s a _putt_ and Will knows that no amount of cockroach-like resilience can wake Chilton from this now.

 

The next breath he takes feels like new air. It’s deep and it soothes every juddering nerve running through him. It’s the first air that he’s taken for himself; not measured out in small doses. It feels like he’s him _self_ , even now, shaking and sweating and with another person’s blood staining him in ways he’ll never quite get clean from.

 

“Hello, Will.”

 

The voice sounds like a hallucination. Like his thoughts have got confused about who they belong to again.

 

He takes another heavy breath, looks towards the door and knows that he’s not imagining things. Because not even his imagination would present him with Hannibal looking so serene, and ultimately, proud.

 

Will climbs from the body on the ground – _body_ , not _Chilton_ – and pushes himself to a standing position, the tiny blade concealed inside a bloody, clenched fist.

 

“This was you?” he asks Hannibal.

 

“No no, my dear Will. This is all you. I think you understand that now.”

 

“The key. How did you get in?” he asks stupidly, as though this is the question he needs to ask.

 

Hannibal walks fully into the cell, shutting the door behind him. “Security were unsuccessful in dealing with as escaped prisoner. There have been injuries…” Will remembers the swiftness of the blow that knocked him out the previous day, “and, I regret to say, fatalities.”

 

Regis.

 

“…But these presented me with the opportunity to ensure your safety. I would have been concerned to think that you could have been left vulnerable to any of the activities used to contain the other prisoners.”

 

“You’re being horribly opaque, doctor.”

 

Hannibal smiles, crouches over Chilton’s gaping neck and examines the wound, then looks up at Will’s red stained mouth.

 

“They may link the compression on his neck to the pattern of your teeth” he comments. “Our escaped prisoner has been less intimate with his methods, and has been cutting out pieces of those who have been…unkind to him.”

 

Will stares, knows exactly what Hannibal means, and refuses to process it.  “Is this the way out you had planned for me all along?” he asks, the cold starting to catch him through the thinness of the gown.

 

“No, Will. Not mine, but I am sure that your method of killing the doctor with your teeth until you were found by security would also have been a viable way to convince them of your innocence.” For Hannibal to be employing peevish sarcasm, he must be, Will decides, irritated.  “You have the blade, yes?”

 

Will registers the slender trail of his own blood leaking from his fist and is aware that he has made a poor job of hiding this from Hannibal. He also knows that if it’s his colleagues – his _former_ colleagues – that do the analysis on this place, he’s all over it. His blood, his spit, his sweat and his prints…short of wrapping _himself_ in an evidence bag, he couldn’t be more implicated. He’s missed this part of his brain, he thinks, the logical part that doesn’t run on other people’s emotions. He’s also distantly aware that he needs this part to be working fully in order to save himself because otherwise, otherwise he’s left with trusting Hannibal.

 

“Our escaped prisoner should be in this part of the hospital shortly” says Hannibal with only a small hint of urgency. “I’d suggest that you work quickly. It’s a blade very similar to yours that he’s been using, and I don’t doubt that you can imagine the sorts of wounds he’s been inflicting with it.”

 

He’s still _smiling_.

 

Will knows _, knows,_ that if he does what Hannibal tells him to, he’ll only be out of one spider’s web for long enough to get tangled back up with Hannibal but with the stench of this room and the dark and the relentless confinement, his rational thought are too slow in creating a less horrific alternative.

 

He stares at Hannibal, right at his glistening irises, and kneels over Chilton’s cooling body. The glazed eyes staring at something just beyond the room don’t bother him, and neither does the wetness of blood as he pushes the blade into the open wound. It takes a moment, no longer, to imagine Regis’s pattern, his hate culminating in desperate actions like everyone here who’s been wound too tight by Chilton. This time, he’s not trying to imagine; he’s recreating this in Regis’s image. Will’s already covered the frantic, reactionary blow; now it just comes down to making the kind of fearful mess of Chilton that Regis would want to leave and, Will finds the motion _easy_.

 

Metal slices through skin as Hannibal narrates their imminent exit. 

 

“I plan to walk you out of here when you are done” says Hannibal. “We will be seen by the remaining conscious members of staff here, and this is important.”

 

Will doesn’t think that this is at all sensible and doesn’t question why there is no higher security involved at this stage; Hannibal continues with a musicality that doesn’t belong to the content of his words. 

 

“Everyone who has anything to do with this place suspects Chilton of poor practice.”  


Will almost enjoys the way that Hannibal can talk about the doctor as a distant concept and not the chunk of cooling meat he’s cutting evidence out of.

 

“And many of them are aware that his dealings with yourself were…antagonistic, and not wholly moral,” he says, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out a small pouch of alcohol wipes, removing any question of the level of forethought he’d put into the visit. He waits for Will to still his hand, lets the detached glaze in his eyes waver back into focus as he pushes himself off the floor, and passes him the means to remove the blood from his hands.

 

“So as far as they are concerned, Chilton was putting you in a position of physical vulnerability, and our escaped prisoner –”

 

“Regis.”

 

“As you like – _Regis_ – wished to have his revenge upon the unfortunate doctor. This would be at the time I was scheduled to visit you, so it is fortunate that I was able to appear in time to remove you from the majority of harm’s way, though sadly, less fortunate for our doctor friend. Don’t remove that,” he says, pointing to the trail of dark red leading from the blade wound that Will is attempting to clean off his leg. “Allow yourself the minor indignity if you will; it is telling the story that we need them to read.”

 

Will’s shaking when he passes Hannibal the orange-red stained wipe, the cold and the exhaustion of anger making his nerves brittle.

 

“I will assure them that your removal is as much for their safety as for yours, and I will also assure them that the authorities are being informed…”  


“I’m not coming back here” says Will, the idea of an _outside_ feeling ever closer and more needed.

 

“I believe that the staggering evidence of Chilton’s malpractice alone can keep you safe from a return to this particular venue, and that we can delay this contact, as long as I have you in my care” states the doctor calmly. “We have one façade to perform for this exit, and I am sorry to ask this of you, but we must present an impression of you that will not cause them to scare.”

 

Will returns to his passive self, his ideas about what freedom could be already tangled inextricably with the demands Hannibal is making of him.

 

“This is your move, Dr Lecter” he says, curling his toes on the floor to keep them from cramping in the cold.

 

“Pass me the jacket.”

 

“You make it sound like regular clothing” says Will, hating that his voice hitches up an octave when he says it.

 

“It’s barely restrictive in the state you’ve left it in” soothes Hannibal as Will bends to pick the bloodied garment off the floor. The look Will offers in return is violent.

 

“Come. This is merely for aesthetic – you’ve cut your escape holes in already.” Will lets his arms hang at his sides and bows his head in grudging acceptance of the inevitable as Hannibal unfastens the catches, drapes it over him and manoeuvres his arms into place.

 

“See?” he gestures to the open slit along one forearm from earlier, reaching his hand under it to tug it down, make it less conspicuous. “You’re not really trapped.”

 

“This is probably more elegant than just knocking me unconscious, I suppose.”

 

The expression on Hannibal’s face indicates that he hasn’t ruled it out.

 

“You may not believe me, but I would prefer to not allow harm to come to your head too often.”

 

“I may not believe you.”  


“I know. But for now, you are going to walk out of this cell with me as your lead, and Will?”

 

Hannibal’s hands are gripping Will’s upper arms in an approximation of reassurance that swiftly becomes a guiding movement, propelling him towards the door that Hannibal holds the key for.

 

“For your own good, I need you to trust me.”

 

Will accepts that at this point, if he wants to get out and survive this, _he really doesn’t have any other option_.

 

 

*

 

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with this to the grotty end.

**Author's Note:**

> "Things will get ugly."


End file.
